Second Horseman Out of Eden

by George C. Chesbro

  “Yeah,” I said, blinking in surprise. “Something like that.”

  “The thought occurred to me too, Mongo. You’re not the only one with a high paranoia index.”

  I smiled thinly. “But then, you’ve got a nose for evil, don’t you? I must have some of the same genes in my nose.”

  “I really wish that fruitcake Valley hadn’t killed himself,” Garth said seriously. “After he told us where to find Vicky Brown, I’d have liked to ask him to be a bit more specific about when the world was going to end, and just what he thought was going to happen when it did.”

  7.

  Malachy McCloskey seemed oddly subdued and distracted when Garth and I went in the next morning to make our formal statements concerning the suicide of Dr. Craig Valley; I had the feeling that the few days he had left before retirement were weighing heavily on him, and that we made him decidedly nervous. Despite the fact that the police detective apparently believed our story, the process was still maddeningly time-consuming, and it was past eleven by the time we got out of the precinct station. Garth headed for the 42nd Street library, while I hailed a cab.

  Pier 42, on the Lower East Side, was the last maritime shipping facility left in New York City, and it was used primarily for the importation of bananas. But bananas came from the tropics, and I considered it a good possibility that one of the container ships might have been persuaded to bring in some soil along with its bananas.

  I visited five offices and warehouses, talked with secretaries, warehouse foremen, and longshoremen. Not a few people thought I was joking when I asked if they knew anything about a load of a hundred tons of dirt. Then I told them why I wanted the information and quickly got their cooperation. What I didn’t get was any useful information.

  It was four o’clock by the time I finished working the area around Pier 42, and I realized with a growing sense of frustration that by the time I went back for my car and then made it through the rush hour crush of traffic in the Holland Tunnel, all of the shipping offices in Jersey City and Hoboken, across the river, would be closed.

  I hailed a cab, went to the library to help Garth.

  My brother was not encouraging; just in Manhattan, there were close to a hundred companies that supplied glass or plastic.

  The next morning, the day before Christmas, I was up bright and early, driving Beloved—a modified Volkswagen Rabbit—down the East Side and through the Holland Tunnel to New Jersey, where most of the shipping companies had fled over the years to lower taxes and modernized container-shipping facilities.

  I started in Jersey City, visiting companies in alphabetical order. At my first stop I found that a Christmas party, complete with jug wine, cookies, and a huge grab bag, was already in progress, although it was only nine thirty in the morning. I decided that did not bode well.

  It didn’t. Everywhere I went, Christmas parties were in progress, sometimes covertly, and more than one person I talked to had glassy eyes and liquor breath. Christmas music was everywhere, on the streets and in the offices; people were smiling, eager to cooperate.

  Nobody knew anything about any shipment of Amazon rain forest soil.

  By noon, I had covered less than half the companies on my list, and I still had Hoboken to visit. I tried to keep my frustration and anger tamped down, because I knew these emotions would only drain me of energy, but it was difficult; the good cheer that was evident everywhere only underlined the fact that somewhere—perhaps only a short distance away—there was a little girl who was not going to get any puppy for Christmas, only rending physical and psychological pain. To make matters worse, Christmas this year fell on a Friday, which meant that it would be three full days before Garth and I would be able to resume our search through corporate America.

  After yet another fruitless visit, I put on my parka and trudged out of the shipping company office into a raw, gray afternoon that perfectly matched my mood. There was a cold drizzle that I was certain would soon change to snow, making my trip back into Manhattan even more slow and miserable. I was suddenly very tired, and depressed; my instincts told me that the rest of the day was going to be equally unproductive. I thought I might be coming down with a cold. I wanted to get back into Manhattan well before the heavy traffic started, but I knew I couldn’t; I had to keep slogging along until I ran out of offices or they closed, because there was always the possibility that the very next one I went into might be the one that had shipped the dirt. If I quit early, I thought, Garth would have the right to punch me in the nose.

  And I had another reason for wanting to stay on the job right up until the time I had to leave to meet Garth for dinner; I thought I just might have picked up a tail, and I wanted to be sure; if someone was following me, I wanted to make certain I didn’t lose him.

  The man I thought might be following me wore a tan parka with a fur-lined hood hiding his features, brown corduroy slacks which were tucked into the tops of old-fashioned rubber galoshes. The parka was bulky, but I gauged him to be of medium build, about five feet nine or ten. He had a kind of spring in his step and upright posture that somehow reminded me of how certain athletes move. Three times I had caught a glimpse of him as I had emerged from different shipping offices. There was always the possibility that he was a salesman of sorts making similar rounds, but he carried no briefcase or notebook. If he was a tail, and I was almost certain he was, he was the lousiest one I’d ever come across.

  Just to test the waters, I casually walked three quarters of the way around the block, then abruptly headed down toward the river. I stood for a few minutes in a snow-covered meadow in a deserted park, watching legions of gulls hitching a free ride on the ice floes in the Hudson. Out in the harbor, the Statue of Liberty was just barely visible in the misty gray air. I walked out of the park, turned left, then right, then stopped to pretend that I was looking in a store window while I studied the reflections in the glass.

  Lo and behold, my man with the springy step dressed in a tan parka floated through the sheen of the glass; he was on the opposite side of the street.

  It was the best thing that had happened to me all day, and I loved it. Why anyone would want to waste his time following me while I wasted my time was beyond me, but I wasn’t going to question providence.

  As I turned away from the store window and walked at a decidedly moderate pace back toward Beloved, I noticed something else that was making a return appearance—a long, black limousine parked on my side of the street about a block and a half away. The limousine was out of place in the neighborhood, and I decided that my tail was being chauffeured about in style.

  It was definitely amateur hour, I thought. Peter Patton, undoubtedly under orders from Henry Blaisdel, wanted to keep an eye on me. Apparently not willing to bring in professional help from the outside, Patton was using a company car and, no doubt, company personnel to do it. It was, of course, absurd to use a stretch limo to tail somebody, but Patton obviously didn’t realize that. Or he didn’t care; the stretch limo and obvious tail could be an attempt at intimidation, or even a show of contempt.

  Outstanding.

  If my man had wheels, it seemed to mean that he was under orders to keep following me wherever I went, as long as it looked like I was taking care of business. If I was getting too old to break Garth’s nose, it probably meant I was getting too old for heroics—especially when there was so much to lose if I made a mistake. I certainly didn’t want to come out on the losing side of a confrontation, and my tail’s chauffeured limousine meant that I should have time for consultation with my burly backup troops. I made a mental note of the license plate of the limousine, then continued walking at a leisurely pace to where I’d parked Beloved.

  Reasoning that maneuvering a stretch limo through rush hour traffic was no easy task, I took care to keep Beloved in the right-hand lane as I went back through the Holland Tunnel into Manhattan and headed uptown. The black limousine dutifully followed, keeping no more than three or four car lengths behind. I was beginning t
o feel insulted; I couldn’t decide whether the driver thought I was blind, very stupid—or if he just didn’t care if I knew he was behind me. I suspected it was the latter.

  I’d left Jersey City not a moment too soon, because it was five minutes to seven by the time I’d negotiated my way back up to West Fifty-sixth Street. Normally, I’d have driven Beloved right into the brownstone’s underground parking garage, since Rick’s Steak House, where I was to meet Garth for our Christmas Eve dinner, was only a block away. However, I was afraid that the driver of the limousine, whose intelligence I was seriously beginning to question, might think that I was bedding down for the night and drive away with the man in the tan parka; after leading them as far as I had, I couldn’t risk that. It is well-nigh impossible to find a legal parking place on the streets in midtown Manhattan at any time, and it was hopeless on Christmas Eve. Consequently, I did something I had sworn I would never do, since it is the equivalent of handing over your wallet to the police department and the tow truck operators; I parked in a tow-away zone, right beneath a sign that read: NO PARKING OR STANDING AT ANY TIME.

  “I’ll make it up to you if you get towed away, Beloved,” I mumbled as I got out and locked the door. “A tune-up, at the least, and I’ll personally touch up any scratches.”

  The limousine stopped at the end of the block. I made a show of checking to see how close my tires were to the curb, used my peripheral vision to watch as the man in the tan parka got out of the limousine. He quickly stepped back into the shadows—but not before I had gotten a good look at him. It must have been warm in the car, because he’d unzipped his parka and flipped back the hood. He was wearing a brown corduroy jacket the same color as his pants, a light blue shirt with no tie. He was fair complexioned, with modishly cut light brown hair. I patted Beloved on the trunk, then stepped into the light where I was sure he could see me. Then I headed into the rich, deliciously gloomy wooden interior of Rick’s.

  I was met just inside the door with a bear hug and kisses from Kim, a beautiful young lady with the blackest hair I’d ever seen. Garth had taught the woman, a former prostitute and functional illiterate, how to read, and then gotten her a job at Rick’s. She was now what Garth and I thought of as the World’s Best Waitress. And I suspected that she deeply loved Garth.

  “Merry Christmas, Mongo, my love,” Kim said in her husky voice.

  “Merry Christmas, Kim, my love,” I mumbled as I tried to extract my head from her ample bosom. “Is Garth here yet?”

  Kim’s smile wavered slightly, and shadows moved in her jet black eyes. “He’s in the back, at your usual table. He seems so … morose. What’s the matter with him, Mongo?”

  “Troubles, babe,” I said as I finally managed to escape from her powerful grip. I reached up and patted her cheek as I moved past her toward the rear. “Bring me my usual, will you?”

  “You look morose, too!” Kim called after me as I pushed my way through a wall-to-wall throng of celebrants. “It’s Christmas Eve! I’ll be back in a little while to cheer you both up!”

  Garth, wearing dark glasses to cover the black eyes I had given him, was sitting at our regular table, a banquette in a comfortably dim corner on the far side of a filigreed wooden partition that separated the dining area from the bar. He looked up from his diet soda, nodded as I sat down across from him.

  “How’d you make out at the library today?” I asked, leaning across the table so that I could be heard above the din of Christmas music blaring from a jukebox in the bar.

  My brother shrugged his broad shoulders. “Lots of information—too much information, really. Blaisdel owns lots of companies. It would take a month just to sort it all out.”

  “Any companies besides Nuvironment that might be involved in the design and construction of biospheres?”

  “Lots—or none. The man owns companies that make just about everything you can think of, all around the world. Some of his companies did a lot of defense work in the late fifties and early sixties, but he doesn’t seem to have had too many government contracts in the last few years. It would take too long to check everything out systematically, so I’m following hunches, making some calls.”

  “What hunches?”

  Again, he shrugged. “What difference does it make? They’re just hunches. How did you make out?”

  “Nothing at Pier Forty-two, and nothing in about half the companies in Jersey City. But I still have half of Jersey City, and all of Hoboken, to work on.”

  “Great,” Garth said in a flat voice as he sipped at his soda. “I don’t think you’re going to get anywhere there, Mongo; however they brought in the dirt, they’ve covered their tracks. On the other hand—”

  “On the other hand, I’ve got some good news,” I interrupted, reaching across the table and squeezing Garth’s heavily muscled forearm. “They may think they’ve covered their tracks, but they’re still nervous about the comings and goings of the Frederickson brothers. You may not believe this, but Patton—or whoever—put a tail on me, complete with chauffeured limousine, and he is bad. I mean, like el stinko. I can’t think of a better Christmas present right now, under the circumstances, and he’s waiting for us right now out at the bar, all gift wrapped in a brown corduroy suit and a tan parka. He’s medium height and build, with his hair cut in a style that went out with the Beatles. You can’t miss him.”

  Garth stared at me for a few moments, a strange expression on his face. He took another sip of his soda, then set the glass down on the table and smiled wryly. “You’ve got it mostly right—except that he’s wearing a blue parka.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? He’s my tail, and I’m telling you he’s wearing a tan parka.”

  Garth grunted, rose from the table. “Excuse me for a little while, brother. I’ve got to go to the head.”

  “I can see that my report got you all excited.”

  “Sure has.”

  Garth was gone less than thirty seconds.

  “That didn’t take long,” I said as he settled himself back down on the leather-covered bench across from me. “You must have a small bladder.”

  “I just wanted to take a look in the bar. I’d tell you to go take a look, but it might arouse suspicion. Think carefully now, Mongo. If you did go in there now to look over the clientele, especially people wearing parkas, what do you suppose you would see?”

  “No shit? Twins?”

  Garth nodded. “Matching outfits, to boot—except for the parkas. My guy is the one in blue. That was what I was about to tell you when you interrupted me. While I was in the library, I could feel this guy watching me—and he kept checking out the books I’d called up from the stacks after I’d finished and put them in the cart. I took a little walk before coming here, just to see how serious he was. He stayed right with me; in fact, he’d probably have stepped on my heels if I’d stopped. A real clown. He had a car trailing him, too.”

  “Jesus Christ. I hope this isn’t somebody’s idea of a practical joke.”

  “It’s no joke, Mongo,” Garth said seriously. “They’re from Nuvironment. Patton sent them to keep tabs on us.”

  “Your nose again?”

  “If you like.”

  “It doesn’t make any difference. I agree with you. Who else would put tails on us?”

  “Did you get a look at your man’s driver?”

  “No. The limo had smoked windows, and they were up all the time. You?”

  Garth nodded. “Just a glimpse—but it was a memorable one. A big, ugly guy; shaved head, flat nose. He’s got the thickest neck you’re ever likely to see this side of a livestock show.” Garth paused, closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples. Finally he opened his eyes, looked at me, and shook his head. “I’m sure I’ve seen him someplace before, and I feel like I should know him; but I just can’t place him.”

  “Is he out in the bar?”

  “I didn’t see him—and I definitely would have if he was in there. Both drivers must still be in their cars.”

/>   “And both parked on Fifty-sixth.”

  “Maybe not. It would make more sense for one of them to park on Fifty-seventh, in case we went out the back.”

  “Whatever. Brother, I would say that a lovely Christmas present has been dropped into our laps just in the nick of time.”

  “Right.”

  “But we have to cut out the drivers.”

  “Right,” Garth said, and smiled thinly. “I knew I wanted to have a chat with my companion, but, naturally, I wanted to check with you first. I’d hate to do anything that would cause you to criticize me again.”

  “Go to hell, Garth,” I said, rising and signaling for Kim. “You made sure your twinny followed you right in here, just like I did; if he hadn’t, you’d have been all over him and his King Kong chauffeur—and you’d have been right, if slightly unwise, to do so. So don’t give me any of your shit about criticism from me. That business with Patton was different, and you know it.”

  I gave Kim a big tip, told her we’d be back as soon as possible, then walked slowly through the bar with Garth, past the corduroy-suited twins, and out the door.

  Outside, Garth nudged me, and I nudged him back; there was no sign of any limousines. Apparently, it had been assumed that we were through for the day when we’d gone into Rick’s, and the twins had been left behind, on their own, just to make certain we were safely tucked into bed.

  “Where to?” Garth asked.

  “I’ve always considered my roof garden a wonderful place to entertain, no matter what the season.”

  “Good idea. The alley and fire escape?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  We walked to the intersection, but instead of crossing it to the next block and the front entrance to our brownstone, we turned right, quickening our pace slightly as we angled across the street. I cast a quick, furtive glance over my shoulder to make sure the tan and blue parkas were following us; they were, moving up the sidewalk in tandem, about twenty yards behind us. We slowed down to make sure the twins wouldn’t miss our big move, then, halfway up the block, we ducked into the narrow alleyway that separated our brownstone from the one on the block behind us. Instantly, Garth pressed back against one wall, and I stepped back against the other.